


A History

by ConvictorKaruma



Category: Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Headcanon, I AM SORRY FOR MY WEIRD HEADCANONS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-29 20:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1009727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvictorKaruma/pseuds/ConvictorKaruma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Happy Mask Salesman's always been a mysterious figure. No one's even rightly sure where he came from, nor what he is. How does he know so much? And how involved is he, truly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this is a very lengthy study for one of my headcanons for the Happy Mask Salesman and how I roleplay him. It's a fairly strange and out-there headcanon.

To be lost is no one’s favorite pastime, and for Kriem, it was a far too usual occurrence. It could never remember left or right, or where anything was. Getting lost between dimensions was the worst, though. That was how it ended up floating outside…whatever this place was. It’d been here plenty of times before, and always found it fascinating, but this time, it looked like this was where it’d be residing for a while.

“Don’t dare return until you sort out those thoughts of yours!” The words of its parent echoed in its thoughts while it tried to observe the life in this new realm that would be home. There was, if it recalled, a race he found to be very promising, from what it could tell, they used magic, as its own people did, and they had masks, as it loved. But they looked so strange…it didn’t have any masks that looked like that at all.

“You have to pick a place now,” the voice of Kriem’s home realm’s leader echoed through the space between realms, and then it felt itself flung forward onto the plains. How fortunate no one was around to see this inhuman, unearthly form smack against the strange, green earth. 3 seconds in and it was already completely out of its element. The sights, the texture, the vibrations…all of it was so unusual. Bordering on overwhelming, really.

This was going to be home, though. That in mind, the creature picked itself, and a cherished mask, up off the ground. The mask evoked a frown, what had been a pleasant smile was now a warped scream, but still, it was part of home. The mask was to be cherished.

Then it heard, or felt, rather, the drums. Something was going down, something big, and it could not be seen, not like this, and so it scuttled off to hide in the dark and watch.

What it saw did not make any sense. The words were foreign, the movements erratic, and this magic just felt, and even tasted different than its own. It knew then that fitting in here was going to take more than a few day’s observation.

————-

Months passed, and the creature was finally getting a handle on what this tribe did, and when they did it. Why was still lost on it, but it could at least play the part, if only it had skin like that, two limbs, and a face like that. It couldn’t say the words, but it’d learned them. These people used “he” and “she” to refer to others of their kind, for example. Kriem liked how “he” sounded. He decided that would be how he would think of himself then. Still, he couldn’t fit in looking like some twisted, goopy version of the plants, as he learned they were called.

Then it occurred to little Kriem. He didn’t have a mask because he never made one, and making a mask…was easy. All he needed was one base, one soul and he could do it. Souls were easy enough, surely there’d be one of those strange four-limbed people that wasn’t fit to survive…

The confusion and sorrow over the dead body the next day confused him. Was what he did wrong? He dared not speak up, but he still felt so lost in the reactions. Even blending in, this was going to be difficult.


	2. Chapter 2

By the end of his first day living as a “proper” Terminan, Kriem had learned quite a bit. Well, that’s not quite right, he learned that there was a whole lot more to taking on this form than he had anticipated. The most obvious was that, while these people walked on two legs, they only had two arms, and these weird slabs of meat with ten fingers out of them. He would try to move one of his multitude of arms, but all that would move would be one of the only two this body had, he’d try to grab something behind himself only to find he just moved one of the fingers, or the weird foot fingers. Add that to the fact that everything he’d been taught was moot here, and the poor thing was left dazed and confused.

Once he was sure he was out of sight, he pulled the mask off and sighed. Such a funny shape these things, and so very confusing in every regard, “Why is this so hard?” he asked himself, staring into the cold face of the man his new community was mourning. It wasn’t an unpleasant face, it even looked peaceful, more so than he had been expecting. The man had worn a very different expression in his last moments, after all.

It was probably best that the pained grimace was left to be forgotten, rather than frozen forever on what the man could only guess was going to be his face for quite some time. It was strange, he wasn’t at peace with his own death, the creature thought, and stranger still, no one else was, either, but he’d have to adjust.

He moved each limb independently, in a weird sort of stretch. Not having them all day was weird, but having them back now felt…well they felt fuzzy, almost unreal. It occurred to him this was the longest he’d worn any mask, and the time would just get longer. That was not an appealing thought at all. With a sigh, he reaffixed the mask to his face and resumed the form of one of the tribesmen, no use readjusting to his old form, since soon enough he wouldn’t be using it at all.

Then his mind wandered to other things. Sure, operating the body was weird, and he was taking up so much less space than was comfortable, but what about the easier things, like the weird light-dark cycle he’d learned were day and night? Were those always this way? And why did everyone leave a little after it went dark? He heard something about sleep, and when wearing the mask, he understood that much, but these people slept so often, it seemed. He knew from observation they did this each night, and he hadn’t even begun to feel tired. Perhaps when no one could see would be the best time for him to work out how to move this new lump of mass? Then he wouldn’t get quite so many stares, he’d guess.

What he didn’t bank on was that night was when the beings belonging to the names he heard liked to play. The first night, he didn’t see them, but he definitely  _felt_ them there. Such unusual energy, he noted. He also noted then, with relief, that his sense of others was still more-or-less in tact. Thank fate for that one.


	3. Chapter 3

Every night he found himself captivated by the strange, and presumably very large entities, and every morning, he found himself greeting the earliest risers in the tribe…no,  _his_  tribe. It became the new norm quickly enough, and while they first thought it odd, the people he had come to claim as his own soon came to expect and even be strangely comforted by his cheerful good mornings and constant willingness to assist in anything they desired. The man was pretty trusting of them, and the people weren’t too abusive of his kindness, either. He made a place for himself in no time.

Unfortunately, in that time he also found the tribe was running into many issues. Disagreements with neighbors, lack of resources…things he knew he could aid with! He had to be useful…perhaps his fear of rejection was irrational, but the sting of being exiled was still fresh enough. Anxieties over whether or not to show them this magic he knew was even eating into what little sleep the man required. He heard the elders cursing the names of the fascinating beings. Was he, perhaps, to hate them, too? He couldn’t bring himself to, they felt kind enough. And strong. But those around him felt so forsaken by the four.

Finally the young man went before one of the elders, “I know I’ve not been here long, and I do hope this isn’t too out of line, however I believe there is a solution…”

The elder’s face cut him off. Such disbelief, he was certain he was about to be scolded, but instead the man urged him to continue, “Is there? Can you, perhaps, explain?”

Relief washed over him like a fresh shower, “Of course!” He reached behind him and produced a simple half-face mask, tinted pale green and etched with beautiful vines, twining around the whole of the thing, “This, for example,” he beamed, proud of his work, “It is blessed with a love of the plants. Whoever dons it will be guided by the forest to safe, plentiful fruits, and be able to encourage crops to grow faster!” Already he felt himself slipping into a role he was going to be filling for many, many years to come. Before he could be asked, he slipped it onto his face, knowing this magic wouldn’t interfere with his transformation, and murmured a small melody to a wilting flower, which almost immediately sprung to life. Taking it off, he looked up eagerly at the elder.

The elder was, understandably, flummoxed by this. Sure, they used magic, they used music to achieve their ends, but it was only a select few who  _could_ use the music to their ends. Sometimes they would find items that had been blessed, too, but this tribe seemed to have awful luck with that. Yet, here was this man, a man who mere months ago had been a stranger who appeared out of nowhere the day they found their night guard, heart ripped from his chest. An uncanny circumstance, but…perhaps he had been brought as a gift from the giants? Or…well, he  _had_ to be there for some reason. And with this power he seemed to possess, the elder thought, he may be able to save them from ruin.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked, realizing he never did ask.

“I-I suppose I was called Kriem. I’m just a collector, though. You can just call me the Collector,” the ginger man stammered, bowing.

“Well, Collector,” the elder nodded, deciding he preferred the title to the man’s name, “Can you perhaps make more of those?”

“I could show you how to do it, if…if you show me how you do magic here,” he knew there was magic. He could sense it.

That night, he got his first instrument. A small harpsichord, but it served his needs. That night, he spent hours composing for his new family. And that was how he knew he had been accepted. And how the tribe first learned of charmed masks.


	4. Chapter 4

Perhaps it would have been better had the tribe never learned of these charmed masks. This sentence plagued the Collector's thoughts for many nights, nights that became weeks, and weeks into years. Perhaps then...

It hadn't taken too long after the first few masks he fashioned, using magic as his tools, as finer motor skills were still strange to him. It'd been so long, but he still couldn't make it past the basics he'd picked up on unnaturally quickly, not that it mattered  _how_  he made these masks, all that mattered was he did. Soon, his family, as he came to understand them, became enamored with the idea of items that would grant them any sort of control over the revered magic. Almost blindly so.

It started out innocently enough, he simply made them tools that would help them to survive and thrive. All he wanted was that, after all. But, he didn't know these people could get so power-hungry. Nor how violent humans could become given the right  _motivations_. This naivety was, tragically, short-lived.

Now that they had access to the resources they needed, they could afford  _revenge_  for those times they'd been slighted by their neighbors. And what a lovely revenge it would be.

Preparations were made, plans discussed. No shame was had, after all, their neighbors  _deserved_  to be paid back in kind for their refusal to aid fellow Terminans. Weapons were constructed. Fights were started.

Watching this unfold, the man who'd wanted only to be useful found himself disillusioned with these people. They consulted him, asking for his aid, and he found it hard to refuse. He lied. "I cannot do that." The words felt slimy and  _wrong_ , how could he lie to these people? Surely they would know. They would know and throw him out! He'd learned lying to be wrong here, after all. Yet still, "There are limitations to how my magic can be used...I am too weak right now..." the excuses kept piling up, and eventually, he hid himself away, refusing to speak with them.

He wished he hadn't done that.

The fights started out small. It was fine. Nothing was lost, no permanent damage. Then, something in the air shifted. Still the man said and did nothing. He didn't know what it was.

A boy, he couldn't have been older than 12, found something. Something that delighted the Elder greatly. Something more powerful than their Collector's magic. Something they hadn't prepared for. The Collector sensed it, and he bristled in his house, but still, he didn't leave.


End file.
